Almost Got Her

Author: Strange Typo

Archived: batficcontest at livejournal

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Rating: M

"Harley Flower"

She shows up on the doorstep in her way, bruised and rejected, helpless and needy. She is plant-like, as she is always trampled over by those who cannot appreciate her beauty and charm. I think of her as one of my most special plants, my Harley-flower. Her colors, tastes, textures, and movements are all exquisite, and she's the rarest of rare—only one like her. The only notable flaw is that a Harley-flower will never put down roots, no matter where you place her or how you caress her. Yes, my Harley-flower comes and goes, tumbling precariously along in the big, bad world on her oh-so-attractive stems.

Here she is, tonight, in need of some tender, loving care.

"Come inside, Harley, before the Venus Flytrap eats you."

"Gee, Red, I owe ya big time. Puddin's a little angry with me—I messed up real bad this time, and—"

"It's over now, so stop worrying. Your room is as you left it." I have to be careful to call it a room and not a pot. Harley doesn't know I think of her as one of my plants. It's not that she'd care, or even understand, but it might give her a clue about my true intentions—my desire to own her, to nurture her, and to keep her as the darling plant of my collection.

She smiles, and I want to wipe off that ridiculous grease paint and tear off her silly clown costume. She looks so much better in my clothing, both cloth and flora varieties. He dresses her like a toy, but I dress her like a woman.

"That's sweet of ya, Red. Ya know, this place is really like a home away from home!" she comments, as if it is some funny coincidence. She has no idea that each time she comes, I carefully alter conditions so they are just right for her, always striving to improve them. I lower the temperature, give her the night air that she loves, and stimulate her in just the right ways.

Still, it is never perfect. She always gets away.

I vow this will be the time she stays. In response to her comment, I sling an arm around her shoulders and gently guide her through the hall.

"This place isn't like a home, Harls, it is your home—any time you need it."

She winces where my hand lands ever so gently on her shoulder, and she catches the flash of rage in my eyes that lets her know when we reach her bedroom I will make her strip and I'll sooth every bruise, scrape, and wound. She knows playing this game with me is dangerous, because each desperate visit to me could mean the end of Joker by my hand. She really needn't worry. If I kill my competition, I know she can't choose me over him. Plants have the right to decide when they'll bloom, and whom they'll do it for. She has to leave him of her own free will. That doesn't mean, however, that I can't help her see why that is the best decision to make.

"It's pretty bad this time, Red. I'm sorry," she says quietly, mistakenly thinking, as she always does, that I blame her for his abuse.

"Hush, baby. Get that paint off your face while I go get some supplies," I order. Harley-flower needs orders. Without structure she is wild and destructive, like a weed. She looks to others, to me and to the Joker, to give her purpose. Joker does not give her a good purpose, but I would. In my garden her purpose would be noble, helping me to heal the wounds of nature, and in return Harley would never want for anything—I would be her water, soil and sunlight.

If I can create the perfect conditions, she will stay, grow, bloom and thrive. If I cannot, she will go elsewhere.

I return to the small room with all-natural healing supplies, harvested and concocted by my own hands. She is stripped to her underwear, her pigtails drooping, spotted like her beloved hyenas with bruise-black splotches up and down her spine, smattered over her legs, striping her belly. I get to work, knowing just how to succeed with this stage of the game. I have been given many opportunities to practice, after all.

"Lay down on your stomach," I order. She obeys gingerly, her beautiful features wincing in pain. I will change it to pleasure, but she will not know this is my intention.

My touch starts innocently, spreading the salve carefully and gently. As I move down her spine, she shivers delicately. I smile knowingly in the semi-darkness, letting my salve-slick hands move lower, casually pressing a thumb into the base of her spine. Her shivering is of a different kind. She thinks she must hide her arousal from me, because she tries so hard to convince me the Joker really is the only one for her that she has to deny the desire of her traitorous body.

But I know where to stroke, and where to push. Harley-flower is a sexual being, and he denies her as a rule. When she wanders into my trap, he has left her so desperate for touch that she is never able to fight her urges, her primal desire, for very long. She always yields.

My fingers tug her panties down, exposing a small bruise that doesn't really need salve, but where would the fun be then? I see and feel her skin flush as I caress the perfect arch, palming it, squeezing it gently. A tiny whimper escapes her swollen lips and she arches into my touch, ever so slightly, so that if I didn't know better I'd think she was just shifting to get more comfortable.

I shift to get more comfortable, too, and she has to spread her legs wider as a result. This is where it gets tricky, because if I let her she will picture him instead of me, but if I speak too much she will force herself to resist my touch. I lean forward, willing the leaves covering my breasts to shift, so that I can ghost them over her bare back.

"You even have bruises around your neck, baby," I whisper, as if I just lean closer so that I can see them. As I do this, I let one hand shift down to her inner thigh, my top knuckle barely brushing the little strip of cotton that, yes, I can feel is wet because of me.

"Red…" she moans, needier than usual. She is catching onto my game, and she is learning that when she seeks me out it is not entirely for protection and rest. She wants it, I realize with delight. She is mine.

Until now, we have touched accidentally on purpose. I have held her in the night, my leg between hers, and I've let her say it is friendship and nothing more. We have kissed under the pretense of testing a new poison, when both she and I knew there was no poison to test.

And now I soothe her wounds under the pretense of healing her, while she and I both know she just wants my hand pleasuring her and my tongue licking up her bruised spine.

"Just…please…" she whispers to the pillow, able to pretend she has said nothing if I were to reject her. That is the last thing I would ever do.

"I'm going to take these off, baby," I say, unclasping her bra and straddling her in one smooth motion. An obliging vine crawls up the bed and tickles up her leg, hooking around the crotch of her flimsy panties and pulling them away. Her whole body blushes at the feel of the vine's smoothness touching her so intimately.

I'm sure Joker does all sorts of things to excite her, using crude gag items and knives and guns, but I will teach her that gentleness is just as good, even better.

She arches up to take off the bra, and I take advantage of the movement by wrapping my arms around her, pressing my bare chest to her back, cupping her breasts with my warm, slick palms. I gently massage, encouraging her nipples to bud, and then sweep my palms downward over her taut stomach. One hand slips along her hip, in between her sweat moistened legs to touch her intimately. She whimpers in need, her music exquisite.

I guide her to turn, so that she feels my wetness on her belly, and my wild hair curtains our faces. Her hands rise to cup my jaw and neck, gently drawing with her fingers over my breasts and shoulders, gripping suddenly when my cool finger slides over her clit. Her mouth falls open, and I kiss her.

Around us, night flowers twine in and bloom, releasing their fragrant dust and covering our slick bodies in a golden sheen of pollen. I massage her in tight little circles, taking my time, drinking her nectar. She is so responsive, so desperate for kind touch. Mine, mine, mine is all I can think. This time, the conditions must be right.

I undulate down her, following the path of my tongue, between the mounds of her breasts and the shadow of her belly button. She gasps when I replace my fingers with my mouth, lapping at all of her before flicking my tongue strategically, surrounding her in a cavern of sweetly poisoned hot air. My tongue slips inside as my vines ensnare her wrists, pulling them above her head, trapping her ankles as well. With her movement restricted, she must strongly arch her chest and pelvis to create friction. With a primal shout she does so, beautifully, desperately, contorting like the gymnast she is to take me deeper. I let her set the rhythm, and then I take over, pushing and curling my tongue, nuzzling against her clit with my nose. More vines come, over her tender breasts, curling and squeezing, around her neck and rolling tiny flowers against her lips and her cheek.

She comes in my mouth, powerful as a rainstorm, straining against her leafy bonds with everything she has. I follow her orgasm with one inspired purely by the aura of my plants and the way she looks stretched out before me—bruised and needy, ensnared in my vines, in love with me physically if not emotionally.

When it is over, I smile sultrily in the dark and let her loose. She sags into the bed, utterly spent, her eyes filled with satisfaction. I lay next to her, gently caressing her chubby cheek, kissing her temple. She begins to cry and hugs me with the little strength she has left, clinging desperately, so torn and vulnerable.

"Stay with me always, Harls. Please," I ask. She is no clown girl here, far away from his animal magnetism. She is no crazy person, no murderess, and no thief. She is just a woman, my Harley-flower.

"Okay," she whispers brokenly in the darkness.

But in the morning, she is gone. I almost had her.